


I'll be Dead Before the Day is Done

by patriciatepes



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Bloodplay, Dubious Consent, F/M, Knifeplay, Masturbation, Multi, Oral Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rimming, Torture, Vaginal Fisting, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-13
Updated: 2013-06-13
Packaged: 2017-12-14 20:22:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/840996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patriciatepes/pseuds/patriciatepes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in between SPN Seasons 7 and 8. When Crowley took Meg back home, he decided that he would torture her with everything he could imagine… and when Meg finally reveals some personal information, Crowley uses it to his advantage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll be Dead Before the Day is Done

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Bingo square used from Kink-bingo, erotic torture
> 
> Perversities (Kinks, concepts): Torture, knifeplay, bloodplay, language, non-con, dub-con, some drowning type torture, bestiality very lightly described in past tense, various way to inflict pain both emotionally and physically, oral sex, anal sex, fisting, rimming, sexual congress with wounds very lightly described in past tense, masturbation, voyeurism
> 
> Warnings: Light spoilers for SPN Season 8, but nothing major, non-con, dub-con, torture, knifeplay, bloodplay, bestiality (lightly described in the past), sexual congress with wounds (very lightly described in past tense)
> 
> Author Notes: Title taken from the Florence + the Machine song, "Seven Devils."

**I'll be Dead Before the Day is Done**

Hell was not much different under Crowley's rule. To be honest, Meg had not been sure what she had expected to be so different. Was she expecting less screaming in the distance? Not so much noise of metal biting into flesh? Was she expecting the blood and fire and brimstone smell to be gone? She had remembered, back when Castiel had first woken up from his Sam-wall-breakage induced coma that he had spoken to her some of what he had seen when he had made his little deal with Crowley to bust open Purgatory. He had spoken of a long, endless line where the back member of the queue would take a ticket number and join the rest of the zombie-like force of men and women. Every so often, someone unseen would shout, "Next!" in a droning voice, and the whole line would move forward a single step. When Meg had inquired at this point of Castiel's description what happened to those who reached the front, the damned batshit crazy angel had grinned and mumbled that he had asked that very same thing. He then rambled for a few moments about how the two of them had more in common than she knew, and she rolled her eyes and said, for the first of many times, "Put up or shut up, Clarence." This served its purpose of knocking him back on track, and he finally answered that the people at the front of the line went nowhere. It simply started all over.

But Meg knew better. This Hell remake that Crowley had shown Castiel that day… that was bullshit, and she saw right through it. Sure, maybe Crowley had certain sections of Hades cordoned off for such ridiculous torture, but she had known Crowley as long as… well, just about as long as he had been down in the Pit. He was a demon at his core, just like any other, and demons craved torture. Twisted, painful, and perverse torture. A giant queue? Yeah, right.

So, when Crowley's minions had caught her outside of Roman's building and she had been dragged back down below, she was not in the least bit shocked to be greeted by the same sights, sounds, and smells. And she was sure she knew what she was in for. After all, Crowley had told her as much. She was going to "roast until she was jerky." Which meant she would likely be on the rack, chopped up in little pieces day in and day out, held over a flaming pit that actually did resemble a barbeque pit, only to be put back together at the end of the day, and locked in a reeking cell to listen to the moaning and groaning of other souls who had not given in to their more demonic side yet. Rinse and repeat. But where she was now? Right now? _That_ she had not expected.

It was a bedroom. And it had to be of Crowley's creation, since the Lilith-run Hell that Meg remembered held absolutely no places of any sort of comfort. Even when the torture ran that of the sexual, it took place either on the rack or something like that. In fact, if Meg thought back really hard—as this felt like a millennia ago—she remembered Alastair taking her roughly while the Hellhounds ripped at the parts of her they could reach. And then, when they had finally succeeded in ripping off a limb or two, Alastair would only grin, muttering something about "new holes" and begin to fuck her in the now armless arm-hole or legless leg-hole and so on. But none of this ever occurred in an actual bedroom.

It was spacious, this room, and it looked like it was decorated by a sadistic rock fan. Various forms of weaponry hung from the blackened walls—like the very room was built out of onyx. And everything was very… pointy. Pillars at each corner of the room ended in clawed feet at both the top and bottom and it looked as if they could tear you a new one if used correctly. Even the frame of the four-poster bed that Meg was currently strapped to—fully clothed, much to her surprise—was made out of and to match the black material of the walls. The sheets she lay on were not even unpleasant… they were silk, and blood red, and her dark hair was even splayed out over silk-covered pillows. No, this had not been what she had expected.

But then again, maybe she should have. She knew Crowley. Alastair had taught Meg long ago that the best torturers never got their hands dirty, but Crowley? He _liked_ getting dirty. That smarmy dick thought it better proved his point if he could dig his grimy hands into your flesh and paint the walls with your blood. Crowley made torture personal. Crowley made _everything_ personal. And just thinking about it made Meg smirk. Only the most evolved demons had a purpose and business… Crowley? He was bottom-barrel, wanting Hell all to himself like a spoiled little prince. And she had to give him at least a little bit of credit. He had made himself Lilith's personal little whipping-bitch to do it. Meg thought it a shame that she had at least not seen Crowley's delusions of grandeur coming. But her mind had been where it was supposed to be back then—serving Lucifer.

The door to the bedroom opened, echoing loudly like it was the door to some grand cathedral or something. Meg lifted her head up as far as she could get it and scoffed, laughing. Crowley, dressed in his usual black suit, smiled at her.

"I haven't the foggiest why you're laughing, darling," he said, closing the door behind him. "You know when I visit, it's never good for you."

And he was not wrong. He had visited her often, and rumors were flying around, even reaching Meg's ears here in this Hell-made bedroom, that torturing her was his new hobby. Several of the demons he had sent in his place when he simply could not make it—pressing Hell matters, she supposed—had even called her his pet and his favorite. The thought made the stomach of Meg's meatsuit churn and her mouth fill with bile.

Crowley crossed the distance between the door of the room and the foot of the bed leisurely. He was rubbing his hands together like he was about to sit down before a grand feast, and that self-important grin was permanently in place on his lips. Meg would love nothing more than to rip the look right off with her bare hands.

"What will it be today, my little whore?" Crowley said thoughtfully, his eyes gazing about the walls. "More whips today? I know how much you enjoyed the lashings I gave you last time I was here."

Meg was used to Hell. She was, honestly. But keeping a perfect poker face was difficult, especially when the sting of the cat o' nine tails was still memorable on her bare shoulders. She shifted against her bonds, stretched out as she was with each ankle and wrist lashed to the nearest post of the bed. Crowley chuckled.

"Yes, I enjoyed that too. But I don't think we'll do that today. I feel like I've been taking it far too easy on you, pet. I think some sort of knife today," he said, walking to the wall to his left and selecting something that looked like a serrated meat cleaver.

Meg rolled her eyes. "You're too predictable, Crowley."

He arched a brow at her. "How so, love?"

She smirked. "All those knives and you choose the biggest one. Tell me something, _Fergus_ , was three inches really enough?"

He growled, just briefly, just enough to let Meg know that she had gotten under his skin. But in the next second, he was all grins, advancing on her. He sat down on the edge of the bed on her right side and pressed the flat side of the knife—cold despite being a knife of Hell—against the tender flesh of her cheek.

"Oh, Meg… you always think you know just what to say… what to do… who to serve… and where has that gotten you? Tied up to my bed as my personal little plaything. What do you have to say to that?"

She shook her head. "You always sucked on the rack. You remember when Alastair let you practice on me? How I laughed and laughed at you? You never did get the hang of it."

The grin was gone, and Crowley snapped the fingers of his free hand. Suddenly, Meg was aware more than ever of the coolness of the silk on her. Her clothes, every last stitch, were gone. He shook his head and trailed the knife down her cheek, her neck, and in between her breasts. He paused just above her navel, bringing the handle straight up into the air and putting enough pressure on the tip to bring just a trickle of blood to the surface. Meg hissed, but the sound was low and almost inaudible against the din of screams and wails coming from beyond the bedroom.

"Oh yes," Crowley chuckled, like he had suddenly remembered the humor behind Meg's little anecdote about his time torturing her on the rack. "I do remember that. I also remember how I got you to stop laughing. The one thing that Alastair taught me that I've made sure to keep in mind."

"And what is that?"

Crowley dragged the knife down now, below her waist, and suddenly Meg's bravado was wavering. She had forgotten this part of the tale, but it was screaming back to her now as she felt the tip of the blade at her entrance. Crowley leaned forward, and she could smell the scotch on his breath.

"Alastair said, ' _Treat her like the whore she is_.'"

And he shoved the blade deep inside her. Her back arched as she screamed, feeling the knife tear through flesh that was never intended to be treated in such a way. Crowley chuckled.

"Do you like it slow, Meg?" he asked, withdrawing the knife to the tip just to shove it deep inside her once more. He repeated the motion in an agonizing slowness before he continued, "Or are you one of those girls that always begs, faster and faster?"

He increased the speed of the blade, and Meg could feel his fist—the only clear hilt of the weapon—ramming against her outer flesh while the blade ripped at her insides. She could easily imagine her innards turning to ribbons, and could actually feel the hot blood pouring out from her. Crowley grinned and leaned forward, and he was so close to her now that she could feel his breath on her neck. Her nose and lip curled in disgust, despite the pain of the ramming knife. He chuckled low into her ear, his tongue snaking out and wiggling just inside of it. Meg pulled her head away, screaming and now adding insults to her pain.

"You fucking bastard," she growled as he finally, fully, removed the knife.

He laughed, pulling the blade up to where her neck and shoulder met. He sliced once there, diagonally, and she hissed with the pain.

"What's the matter, whore? Don't like the reminder of what you are? Tell me something, darling, when you were alive, what was your record? I mean, just how many men did you take in a single night? Did you let them all come in your mouth, or was it a shower-type situation?"

All the time he spoke, he was slicing away at her flesh, making swift little cuts here and there all about her torso and cutting at the tender under-flesh of her breasts. But Meg maintained that she was used to Hell, and she was used to whatever it was that Crowley could throw at her. She laughed, the grin she was trying for becoming more of a grimace.

"Why does it matter, Crowley?" she chuckled. "No matter the quantity, they were still of better quality than you."

He growled, giving into anger as he brought the knife back and stabbed it deep into her belly. She gasped, curling into the source of her pain. But as she fell back against the pillows, she was still laughing.

"I'll always laugh, Crowley," she taunted. "Just like every other woman you've ever been with. Torture me all you want, but I'll still always laugh."

Crowley ripped the knife from her, tossing it carelessly on the floor. It wouldn't matter. As soon as Crowley left, the room would reset itself, like some big do-over. He stood from the bed and stormed from the room, Meg's taunting, albeit pain-edged, laughter trailing after him.

##

Damn that whore. Crowley stormed from the bedroom, snapping his fingers just outside the door—where he could still hear that bitch laughing—to appear in his new mansion's lavish study. He made his way over to his liquor cabinet, pouring a full glass of Craig before taking a seat in his brown leather office chair. He took a long, leisurely sip of his scotch before letting a little, annoyed growl free. Torturing your enemies was just no fun if they were actually managing to come away from it psychologically okay. And yes, he was aware that, like him, Meg was a demon who had been on Hell's rack for who knows how long.

He sneered into his drink, thinking back on all the times that little whore had bragged about being Alastair's personal student. Alastair showed many people how to torture other souls in the pit, but he took only a handful of students… Crowley found himself wondering if it would properly irk Meg to remind her that Dean friggin' Winchester had been one of those students as well.

After a moment of rolling that around in his mind, he finished the rest of his drink in one swallow, slamming the glass down on the desk. No. That wouldn't be enough. In fact, that would probably be something she could throw back at him. Pretty boy Dean—good, righteous Dean—had been a student, but not him. It would take more. Crowley would have to dig deep to find that precious little nerve, that special little note that would make Meg Masters—as she called herself now—remember Hell the way it was when she first arrived. A scary damn place where all your dirty little secrets were laid bare for all to see and laugh at. He just had to find that sweet spot.

##

For the first time in days—weeks, months, years, who the hell knew?—Meg was no longer tied to the bed. She was still bound, yes, at the wrists and ankles, and she was nude again. It was common practice in Hell to torture nude… all the more shame. Not that Meg felt much shame anymore. The good thing about being an older demon.

But Crowley had come to her again, the following day, and he had started slow. Little, stinging cuts all up and down her flesh. He brought a bottle of that foul smelling scotch that he preferred, leisurely drinking it with one hand while the other carved all manner of things into her pale flesh. Meg had not looked up to see what he had done, but she knew the practice well enough to make out the words, "slut," "whore," and "harlot" as he marked them into her flesh. But, like the day before, she had only laughed at him. He growled in annoyance at her, until, finally, she pressed just the right buttons. He was beginning to chop off toes as Meg smiled up at the smarmy dick and said, "Trying to add a few more inches, Crowley? Because, really, I doubt the pinkie toe would be the place to start."

And that's when he had taken her off the bed. Careful, always so damn careful, to keep her tied up, he dragged her into a red-and-ebony adjoining bathroom that Meg had not realized this Hell-made bedroom had had. There was no toilet, of course, but there was a sink and a large tub. And the tub was filled nearly to the brim with a familiar smelling liquid. Crowley forced her to her knees, and being so close to the source of the smell now, Meg knew that it was easily some sort of bleach.

"It's a shame that such a pretty face has such a filthy mouth. And, in my experience, a good whore needs to keep her mouth clean to get all the good customers," he said.

Grasping a handful of her dark hair, he shoved her into the bleach, the liquid coming up just past her shoulders—upside down, of course—and spilling all over the side of the tub. She wanted to scream, feeling the horrible stinging filling her open wounds. It sent a terrible tingling—almost like an uncontrollable itching—all over her body, and it felt like a dull fire was consuming her body. Crowley finally pulled her up, and she gasped for air.

"Hmm," he said, surveying her. "Wonder what you would look like blonde?"

He shoved her back in just as she was about to spit some insult at him. The bleach filled her mouth and made her gag and retch, the burning doing nothing to ease this feeling. Crowley shoved her head to the bottom of the tub, forcing her cheek to the cool black material of the container's flooring. It was a struggle to keep her eyes closed, and the bleach was beginning to feel like acid on her skin. Just when she was about to give in, when she was sure she was going to drown on the terrible taste of bleach, Crowley jerked her out of the tub and threw her to the floor.

Gasping, Meg laid back, the cold of the floor making her wounds contract and ache even more. She could see locks of her bleach-soaked hair over her shoulder, and they were now a terrible shade of yellow-blonde. She grimaced up at Crowley, who was just the very picture of self satisfaction.

"Definitely an improvement," he said, reaching down and picking her up by her hair.

She growled as he dragged her back into the bedroom, tossing her onto the bed. Her wrist were bound behind her, and her own hands were digging uncomfortably into the mid of her back. She tried to struggle, to roll back off the bed—anything to piss this bastard off—but Crowley was straddling her in a moment. She wrinkled her nose up at him, and he laughed.

"That's rather a becoming look on you, Meg, darling," he said, snapping his fingers.

In an instant, her legs went from being bound together to being spread eagle and bound back to the bottom two posts of the bed. Her hands remained, however, still tied behind her back. She wriggled underneath him, growling up at the King of Hell.

"Get off."

"That's the idea," Crowley said, his hands lowering to the zipper and button to his black slacks.

Meg frowned. No. She groaned, watching as Crowley pulled his fully erect member from his pants.

"I don't usually prefer blondes," he said, wrapping a fist around a thick, long cock that probably—Meg noted—was nothing like the one he had had, naturally, in life. "But on you… it just works."

He began to stroke, tug, and pull at himself, clearly enjoying Meg's discomfort. She turned her face away from him, but his free hand grabbed her under her chin, wrenching her head back around.

"No, no, no… good little whores know how to earn their keep. Eye contact is essential," he said, a soft little moan escaping as his hand gained speed.

"Spent a lot of time with whores, have you?" Meg asked through gritted teeth.

It had been a while since someone had used this kind of torture on her. Actually, now that she thought about it, not since Alastair had this method been used. Crowley liked his hack-and-slash method, usually, throwing in a few mind-fucks here and there. But nothing usually so base. Biting lightly at the inside of her lip, making sure to keep her mouth clamped shut, it was becoming difficult for her to keep her poker face. The fact that this bottom-feeder was using her mutilated body to get off was getting to her more than she would have cared to admit to. And something must have been slipping to the surface, because the more her discomfort grew, the faster his hand moved and the louder his moans got. Finally, being a woman who had had her fair share of men—though, despite Crowley's usage of the term for her, she had not been a whore in the strictest sense—Meg recognized the tell-tale signs of a man about to reach his climax. His cock twitched, and Meg's mouth was surely just a thin line now. But Crowley's grin was pure evil, and he slid his thumb and forefinger up, gripping Meg's face just where her jaw hinged, forcing her mouth wide open. Crying out, he came, his hot cum landing all over her breasts, and a decent amount landing right on target—her mouth. He sighed, moving to stand and collect himself as Meg spat his semen in his direction. He dodged it easily, chuckling.

"What's the matter, kitten? Out of practice?" Crowley laughed as he finished zipping up his pants.

Meg's resolved wavered, and she didn't like that. But, finding her bravado once more, she shrugged.

"You're still just fucking yourself, Crowley."

A tight little "humph" escaped Crowley's lips as he turned, snapping his fingers to properly restrain her on the bed once more.

"See you tomorrow, dear," he said, exiting the room.

##

Being the son of a witch, Crowley knew a few extra tricks that most demons did not. And it was to these tricks that he was turning to now in his study. Jerking off on top of his little pet had clearly disturbed something deep inside of her, something that she possibly had no clue was there. And that intrigued him. Because he had been on Alastair's rack, had seen what that perverted monster liked to do to the poor sods under his knives. He was fond of fucking mutilated body parts and opening new holes in the stomach or throat for his dick to explore. But, occasionally, he liked to get really twisted and call a hellhound in on the action. Most souls of the pit, once fully demonized and topside, would more than likely try their best to forget the time a hellhound had spent fucking them… or the time Alastair had made them suck one of the hounds off. Meg might have been the favorite of the Lucifer-loving crowd, but that did not exclude her from the over-all Hell experience. Jerking off on her should have done exactly nothing to her resolve.

But Crowley had seen just the opposite. He had seen her waver, wanting the King of Hell to stop before he came all over her. And with an expression that was somewhat between a grin and a frown, Crowley—presently—fidgeted in his large office chair, feeling his cock twitch between his legs. He had never preferred sexual torture—there were oh-so many other ways to hurt someone—but he had to admit that he was beginning to understand the basic appeal to it. He cleared his throat, pushing that nagging little thought from his mind, and instead focused on the dusty tome that lay open before him.

Hundreds of spells, written in all manner of languages, lay before him on the yellowed pages. His left hand tapping the top of his desk in thought, he flipped through the pages slowly. He was looking for something specific, something to help him truly torture his little Meg. But damn it all if he wasn't entirely sure what it was at the moment. Sighing, he continued his slow exploration of the pages, hoping his eyes and mind would know what he needed before he himself did. And thankfully, his mind had not failed him yet.

The spell was a simple one. Simpler than most. But it was a good one. And the more Crowley read about its effects, the more he grinned. This was exactly what he needed to get under Meg's skin and find out what had bothered her so much about a form of torture that should have been all too familiar to her. He pushed himself to his feet, his eyes landing on a cabinet across the room—one used primarily for his spell ingredients.

"Time to get things cooking," he chuckled to no one at all.

#

The look on Crowley's face when arrived the next day in the bedroom was nothing short of "determined." And Meg was sure that this was the most unnerving look she had seen yet. She was healed, once again—all part of the Hell process—and ready for fresh torture. But Crowley grinned, noting the one thing—immediately—that Meg was already pissed at.

"Still blonde, I see. I guess Hell doesn't count a bad bleach job as a wound," he chuckled, finally arriving to stand over her.

Meg sneered. "Was a two-bit tailor, and an even worse hair stylist. Tell me, _majesty_ , is there _anything_ you're actually good at?"

She had expected the soft growl, the hatred that always emanated from him when Meg spoke of his human life. But this time, he raised a single index finger, and nodded matter-of-factly.

"Actually, I was rather good at magic. The only times my Mummy was ever proud of me," he said, opening his left hand to reveal its contents to her.

It was a little black hex bag, tied together with a single piece of twine. And, despite the natural aromatic state of Hell, Meg still curled her nose at the stench of its contents.

"This is Hell, Crowley. Hell. And you have to resort to magic to hurt me? And I thought you could sink no lower," Meg huffed.

Crowley tsk-ed at her, turning around and selecting one of the many knives off of the wall once more. The biggest blade, again. Meg thought to point it out like before, but thought that she was better off keeping her mouth shut. After all, she was more than a one-trick pony.

Crowley was over her again, the tip of the shining blade pressed over her right temple.

"This isn't torture. Not strictly speaking, luv," Crowley explained as he pressed the tip of the blade harder against her meatsuit's tender skin.

She sucked in a breath as she felt the blade break flesh, but she was proud to say that that was all the noise she made. Crowley laughed.

"You see, I've got a two, possibly three, part plan here. This is part one. And you may think you're being all brave now, but things are going to get real bad for you, real quick today."

And it wasn't quite wrong. He made a shallow slice starting from his puncture point, and then turned the knife, angling it downward. He worked the tip, wiggling it as if she were nothing more than an animal carcass being prepped for further butchering. She gritted her teeth, dampening the screams that wanted to spill out. Crowley was doing an impeccable impression of the Cheshire Cat as he managed to work the knife just under her skin, making a little pocket on the side of her face.

"Son of a bitch," she hissed as he pulled up on the knife, holding the entrance of the wound open.

"Been hanging out with Dean too much, I see. You're starting to sound like him," Crowley said, pressing the bundled bottom of the hex bag against the wound.

She screamed as he put as much force as he pleased into shoving the bag inside of her face. It was an odd feeling, a new one even here in Hell, to feel a bag of whatever-the-hell was inside that cloth shoved in between your skin and your muscles. Her hands flexed open and shut against her will, wanting nothing more than to be free of their bindings so she could rip the offending object from her. But, alas, she could do nothing but struggle.

Crowley tossed the knife, casually, over his shoulder, and smiled. "Now the real fun begins. Let's see what's got Meg Masters so wound up that she can't even enjoy a nice hard cock coming all over her pretty flesh."

He began to chant in words that Meg had never heard before. Maybe it was Latin, or maybe it was some other dead language, but the point was that she had no clue what it meant. But all of a sudden, the pain from the right side of her head was intensifying, burning. She cried out, feeling like little claws that were already inside of her were digging even deeper, trying to access things that they shouldn't. Crowley's chant continued for a moment longer, and by the time he was done, Meg was not feeling at all like herself.

Her head lolled from side to side of its own will, and her vision swam. She felt feverish, yet cold all at the same time. She began to blink, vaguely trying to get herself to focus, but the blinks were not fast enough. She wondered if this was what humans felt like when they got roofied.

"That's a girl," Crowley said, and Meg thought that a chair had appeared from somewhere, because she was pretty sure he was sitting now.

"What… what did you…" she tried, but the sentence just wouldn't finish.

The King of Hell shushed her. "Now, now. Let my spell do its work. Just let go, pet, and it'll be over all the sooner."

Like that was going to happen. But, no matter how hard she tried to fight it, she could feel the spell winning. Those claws were digging ever deeper, and her mouth was beginning to move on its own, words spilling forth.

"Blood… so much…" she groaned, an image of a battle field long in the past dancing before her eyes.

"Yes, yes, so interesting," Crowley yawned. "Fast forward a bit, darling."

But Meg was not in control of this little acid trip through her past. Faces she thought she'd long forgotten swam before her and vanished before she could utter their names. Memories from the rack were surfacing now—utterly skipping over the things she had done to get to Hell in the first place—and she could see Alastair's sweaty body above hers, thrusting into her. It was one of the rare times that the conventional place for his dick to be was exactly where it was at.

"Pretty, pretty girl," he was muttering to her… or did Meg mutter that? She wasn't sure now.

The edges of her vision were getting blurry, like watching the road on a hot, hot day.

"Going to serve Lucifer so well one day," Alastair whispered into her ear.

She had been in Hell for a while by this point, and had already started calling Azazel "father."

"Anything he wants," Meg muttered.

She could hear Crowley, just at the edges of her reality, groan.

"Get on with it," he huffed. "I haven't got all bloody day."

The memories changed, and this time she was being held close by someone completely different. And the feeling was different. The embrace was warm, strong, and not at all terrifying. It should have been though. His essence was the exact opposite of hers. He was all light and good, while she was all dark and twisted. But the angel holding her so tightly now warmed her in ways that she had never been warmed before. She never wanted the hold to end.

"No," Meg moaned as the memory replayed the truth before her.

The angel had cast her down, using her as a bridge to cross over the Holy Fire that would have destroyed him. She watched him walk away, the overcoat he wore not even scorched. The fire burned her too, but it was a different burn. It wasn't the shameful, tortuous burn of Hell, but of Heaven… of cleansing.

Meg could feel her face contorting now, trying to fight this in-her-head version of "This is Your Demon Life." And she heard Crowley scoot forward to the edge of his seat.

"We're coming upon something now, aren't we, dear?" he laughed.

She growled. She wasn't his "dear." She didn't want to be _his_ dear. Her mind fast-forwarded once more, but now the memories were all of that angel. His slow, deep kiss up against the wall, the way she never wanted his hands to leave her, the way he made her feel… the way she told him she felt when he ended the embrace.

"I feel clean," she muttered, and she wasn't sure if it was just the memory or aloud.

She remembered hearing of his death, of mourning him in her own way—which was to say, as deliberately _not_ mourning him at all. She remembered seeing him alive again, being called a different name. She teased Dean, and him, trying to spark something. But it was the killing of other demons that had brought the angel back to himself, and Meg was seeing it all again. Feeling it all again. Standing on that hill with Winchester, a flush and a chill running the course of her body. Trying her best not to look like some desperate dog in heat as she watched the angel destroy her fellow demons.

"Back…" she murmured.

"What's back? Whose back? What the bloody hell are you murmuring about now?" Crowley was asking, just at the edge of the euphoria that was threatening to consume her.

Because that's what these memories—these post-Hell, post-Apocalyptic memories—were for her. Happiness. And she didn't know why.

But then again, watching them all dance before her mind's eye while somehow being vaguely aware that someone was watching _her_ as well—someone she hated… she was beginning to forget who—she knew why they made her happy. She knew the feeling, the name of that feeling, that it was giving her. But she was a demon, and demons were not accustomed to this feeling. It was pulled out of them, like the time Alastair had pulled her teeth out on the rack, one by one. But she was remembering it, remembering it as she remembering watching over the comatose angel. Remembering it as she remembered the angel waking up, waking up and trusting her and _only_ her. Remembering how the angel had stood up to Crowley when he had discovered her involvement with the Winchesters against the Leviathan. She knew what this feeling was, and she wanted it more than she had ever wanted anything. More than wanting out of Hell. More than her father's—Azazel's—approval. More than Lucifer's reign. Even more than that smarmy dick's death.

"Love him," she groaned, her head shaking against pillows she had forgotten she was laying one.

"Who? Who is it? Say his name," came a familiar but unidentifiable voice in her ear. She was so foggy now, riding the euphoria that seeing the angel's face gave her.

"Say it!" the voice demanded.

She felt the smile on her lips as the angel's name fell forth.

"Castiel."

And she gasped. The room came horrendously back into focus, and she felt something wiggle out from her head. She groaned, her eyelids feeling heavy, and her mind feeling blank. What had just happened? What had Crowley done?

She turned to find the King of Hell standing, grinning triumphantly over her. She shook her head, tugging on her bonds just for good measure. Try as she might, she could not remember what had just happened. She glared up at the usurper of Hell.

"Did you torture me, Crowley?" she asked, a slow smile on her lips. "Because if you did… you sucked. I don't remember a thing."

Crowley laughed, and the sound of it gave Meg a sinking feeling.

"Oh, no, darling. Today was a free day. Kisses," he said.

He whirled on heel, exiting the bedroom, and Meg couldn't help but feel like something had just gone horribly wrong.

##

So that was it then. That was why the usual, more sexual tortures left Meg feeling worse than usual. Crowley was back in his study, a celebratory glass of Craig in his hands. She was in love with Heaven's nerdiest angel. Oh, this was just too good.

Crowley pressed the rim of his scotch glass to his lips, tipping it up so that just a sip passed through. His free hand tapped the top of his desk as his mind pondered this newest tidbit. A demon in love with an angel… It didn't surprise Crowley, really. Meg had always had an angel fetish. He had been there, after all, on the day that Meg had been informed about her future duties to Lucifer. It had been one of the many, many times that Alastair had been using her girlish form to get himself off, and it was one of the few times that a little voyeurism had played into it. He remembered seeing it, the moment that the idea of being the right-hand demon to an angel—fallen or no—finally sank in through Meg's thick skull. It must have been the only time she had truly orgasmed under Alastair's touch.

He, on the other hand, had never understood it. What was so great about these bloody angels? Sure, he'd made time with one or two once he had reached topside again. But it wasn't anything spectacular. Most the time, they were inexperienced virgins too clumsy in the bed for their own good. But if Meg was in love with _this_ angel, the Winchesters' dearest Castiel, then maybe Crowley could have some real fun with his little pet now.

The wheels were turning in the King of Hell's head, and he grinned into his drink. Tomorrow was going to be just so much fun.

##

One never really slept in Hell. Instead, it was more of just a loss in time. Like, you could blink, but instead of your eyes opening right back up, they did so several hours later. So, for Meg to think that she had just "woken up" as Crowley arrived the next day wasn't technically correct. But it was close enough for her.

"So what will it be today, _highness_?" she scowled. "More _big_ knives? More masturbation? I mean, you could at least get a _little_ creative."

Crowley grinned, and for the first time, Meg noticed that he had not closed the obsidian doors behind him yet. One hand still gripping the doorknob, Crowley held it open just a tad.

"Oh, creativity is just what I'm going for, whore. Besides, if you remember correctly, you were the one that lacked poetry… art. You were always too straightforward, Meg. Always."

Meg's brow narrowed as she tried to lift her head up as far as it would go off the pillows.

"What are you talking about, Crowley?" she asked, the question barely a murmur.

His grin widened. "Well, you see, you've been such a good little stress-reliever for me that I thought I'd reward you."

Oddly, that had been the scariest thing she'd heard in Hell yet. Hell didn't give rewards, not real ones. Eyes still narrowed, Meg shook her head. Crowley laughed.

"Don't believe me? Well, you should. See, I've brought you a special visitor."

With that, he pulled open the door, and it was everything Meg could do to contain her surprise. Standing there in a pristine, beige overcoat, his usual black causal suit, white shirt, and blue askew tie in place, was Castiel. He entered the room, and Crowley finally closed the door behind him. Meg could feel her heart thudding in her chest as she began to shake her head.

"That's not him. That's not Cas—that's not the Little Angel that Could," Meg snarled.

"Oh?" Crowley said, stepping up beside the imposter to survey him. He turned his snake-like eyes back on Meg as he added, "Sure looks like him. So, looks like a duck… Cas, say something to our dear Meg."

"Hello, Meg," the fake Castiel said, sounding absolutely, one-hundred percent like the _real_ Castiel.

Crowley shrugged. "Sounds like a duck. So, if it looks like a duck and sounds like a duck… it's a duck."

But Meg's expression was still sour, unbelieving. Crowley sighed. Turning back to the Castiel he had brought, he motioned to the still-bound Meg.

"Why don't you give her something to really remind her of you?" the King of Hell suggested.

Castiel nodded as he moved toward the bed. Meg pulled on her ropes, instinct trying to make her appear smaller. She shook her head.

"Get away from me!" she growled.

But she was trapped—the whole point of Hell, in essence—and the fake Castiel was now straddling her. She shook her head, and hated it when a soft "no" escaped her lips… just seconds before the fake angel pressed his lips to hers.

Meg closed her mouth as tightly as she could, and she tried to ignore the fact that whoever this demon really was had hands that were pleasantly warm as they slid under her blouse. She felt his tongue graze her lips. She struggled, but in a moment, he had them pried apart, exploring her mouth as he pleased.

He even _tasted_ like Cas… how had Crowley done this? Meg felt that familiar tingle running the course of her body as the kiss continued, the fake Castiel's fingertips now just barely touching her breast. She tried to fight it… oh, how she tried… but a moan escaped from her. It was then that Castiel pulled away, her eyes fluttered open, and she saw that Crowley was now standing over the both of them. Her anger spawned anew, she growled up at the demon.

"Go fuck yourself," she spat.

"Ah," Crowley smiled knowingly. "Enjoyed it, didn't you?"

"This. Isn't. Him."

The fake Castiel looked over at Crowley, his expressed just the perfect mirror of Clarence's usual confusion. Crowley shrugged.

"You're right, of course. I can do a lot of things now that I run this town, but negotiating playtime between you and Cas? Unfortunately, that's not one of them. But, this facsimile is pretty damn close to the actual product, isn't it? I hate to do this, but I really should pat myself on the back for this one."

Meg had that sinking feeling again. She glared up at Crowley.

"What's the game?" she asked.

Crowley huffed out a small laugh, snapping his fingers. A chair appeared behind him, and he took a seat, scooting as close to the bed as he could without squishing himself up against it. He gave the fake Castiel a meaningful look, and the fake angel nodded, leaning in to caress Meg's body and shower her neck and chest with peppered little kisses. Meg scowled, and Crowley flashed her a lecher's smile. Leaning in, his lips almost touching her ear, he chuckled.

"Just give in," he whispered. "This _is_ your Castiel. Or, at least, as close as _you're_ going to get to him. Give in and enjoy, Meg… and then we'll all have some fun."

Meg growled, and it was only partly in anger. Mostly, it was as a cover for the moans she felt welling up in her throat as the fake Castiel continued to nip and kiss affectionately at her neck, his roving hands working their way under the bra her meatsuit was wearing to knead at her breasts.

"What do you mean, we?" Meg whispered as the would-be Castiel began to run his hands a bit lower on her body.

"Give in, and you'll find out," Crowley whispered, still right next to her ear.

Meg pursed her lips, trying to best to keep her eyes from rolling back in her head as the fake angel worked a hand into her pants. Her heart was thudding faster, and she was sure that if she were human, she would be close to a heart attack from the palpitations.

"Say his name," Crowley said, and Meg's eyes darted over to see him, legs crossed and leaning on one arm of his chair. "Give in, moan your precious angel's name, and I'll let you have some dirty little fun."

Castiel's—no, not the _real_ Cas, Meg was working hard to remind herself—hand was now stroking her clit, and she bit down hard on her bottom lip. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Crowley squirming in his seat, and she knew that probably had something to do with the growing erection between his legs.

"I won't," she said. "I won't."

Easier said than done as she could feel the fake Castiel's erection pressing into her hip. And if the feeling alone was any indication, he was quite gifted.

"Hmm," Crowley said thoughtfully. "Cas, why don't you remind our little Meg why it is that she feels so for you?"

Castiel nodded and moved his lips back up to hers. He pulled his hands away from her lower body, winding one in her hair. Meg's resolve was clearly wavering, and it was everything she could do not to protest what she knew was coming. But he jerked her head back, shoving his lips against hers.

It was just like it had been the first time. The first time Castiel had pressed her up against a wall, kissing her as forcefully as he pleased. Her body reacted just the same, and she felt the same mixture of relief and want mixing within her. Like this was it. The single thing she had been missing her entire life—as a human and as a demon. Her mind was swimming as the kiss broke, and she felt like it was through some sort of foggy glass that she was seeing this non-angel through now. And, in her weakened, wanting state, it was enough.

"Castiel," she moaned as she let herself believe it.

##

And that was it. Exactly what Crowley needed. He snapped his fingers, and Meg's bonds fell free as she instantly wrapped her arms about the demon currently impersonating Castiel. She moaned and arched herself into him as he returned to nipping at her neck, and Crowley leaned back in his chair, watching the scene play out. The two on the bed began to tear at each other's clothes, Meg's falling away quickly while she seemed to be having trouble with the buttons of the white shirt of Castiel's suit. Crowley grinned, shifting again in his seat as he could feel his own arousal growing still. Again, he had never really been one for voyeurism, not really understanding how just watching could be so much fun. But it was starting to become clearer to him.

Both people on the bed were completely naked now, but the action had still not progressed much farther beyond the gentle exploration of their bodies. Hands and lips roamed just about everywhere they could think to go, never lingering long. Both were moaning and arching and begging each other for more. Crowley let a hand drop low, gripping himself through his suit's slacks.

Meg was really lost now. She was moaning only Castiel's name, and Crowley's made-up Castiel was responding only with more moans. Crowley rubbed at his own erection, seeing Meg's growing wetness appearing on her thighs. It was time to take things up a notch.

"Turn her over," Crowley ordered.

Castiel nodded, and gently worked Meg over onto her stomach. Crowley moaned in approval as Meg stared back at the Castiel kneeling over her, her ass moving up closer to his crotch. His made-up Castiel seemed eager to please, grabbing both of Meg's hips in his hands, but before he could do much more, Crowley called him to a stop.

"Not yet," the King of Hell said. "Use your tongue. Fuck her ass with your tongue first."

Castiel leaned forward and shoved his pink tongue directly into Meg's ass. He mimicked a thrusting motion with it at first, causing Meg to moan and arch some more, before he removed it, licking and kissing all about her rear.

"Oh, Cas," Meg groaned, pushing herself into him.

Crowley had worked off his jacket now, and unzipped and unbuttoned his pants. He shoved his own hand down, gripping his thick cock and jerking on it slowly.

"More!" Meg begged as Castiel began to massage her buttocks while licking leisurely at her.

The wetness was now rolling down pretty little Meg's thighs, and Crowley was now rubbing the head of his cock as roughly as he could stand. The fake-Castiel's cock, he noticed, was standing fully erect, looking almost angry as little veins could be seen bulging out.

"Yes, yes," Meg moaned, and Crowley stood.

"Enough of that for the moment," he said, and Castiel pulled obediently away, causing Meg to whine in disappointment.

"Let's get really creative," the King of Hell said, loosening his tie.

He was stripped out of his clothing in moments, and he motioned to Castiel.

"Hold her upright," he ordered.

"What?" Meg asked as Castiel slipped his arms underneath hers.

He pulled her up so that she was sitting upright on the bed, almost in the fake angel's lap, and Crowley moved to sit in front of her. Her gaze automatically narrowed, and she shook her head.

"No," she muttered. "No. Not you."

"Oh, yes," he whispered, running his hands over her exposed chest and stomach. "Me."

He could feel her shudder at his touch, her body ready for pleasure despite its source. Crowley looked over her shoulder at the Castiel that held her.

"Make her comfortable, Cas. Make her feel good," he ordered.

Still careful to keep his restrictive hold on Meg, the made-up Cas dipped his head, picking up his slow method of kissing and nipping. Crowley's hands were still on Meg, and he felt her body relaxing, despite itself, into the angel's touch. The King of Hell ran his fingertips up Meg's taunt stomach, causing her to shudder once more. Her body bucked, trying to keep him away, but he chuckled at the weakness of the attempt.

"So many things I could do to you right now," Crowley chuckled. "And you'd enjoy every minute of it. But where to start?"

The moan that escaped from Meg now was more of a protest than some of the others. And the proverbial lightbulb went off over Crowley's head.

"Why don't we get you to finally serve your king?" he said.

He moved back, reclining against the pillows and spreading his legs so that they extended to either side of the two in front of him. Meg's eyes widened, easily knowing what was coming. Crowley nodded, confirming her fears.

"Bow," he said.

The Castiel holding her made her bend to all fours, and moved a hand up to the back of her head, shoving her mouth down onto Crowley's waiting cock. Meg gagged a little at the deepness, and she tried to push herself off of Crowley.

"Nuh-uh," Crowley said, batting away the fake Cas's hand and gripping Meg's bleached locks with his own. "Suck. And use very minimal teeth, dear, or you'll regret it."

He moved Meg's head for her, pulling and pushing her up and down while she tried her best to fight. It wasn't the best blow job Crowley had ever received, in truth, but just the circumstance of it was making the demon thrust unconsciously into her warm, wet mouth.

"Lick," Crowley ordered, and Meg shook her head. He shoved her down harder, making her gag once more as he repeated, " _Lick_."

The move was reluctant, but it was there. He could feel her little tongue rubbing up and down his shaft as he continued to move her head. He moaned, despite himself, his head tipping back.

"That's it, dear. Just like that," he whispered, making sure that his hand on her head kept her momentum.

Meanwhile, Castiel was bent over Meg's back, his tongue trailing up and down her spine, occasionally dropping a little lower. Meg gasped a little onto Crowley's member when the fake angel had made an unexpected revisit to her ass. The King of Hell could feel Meg's teeth grazing his shaft now, desperately wanting to do something defiant, but reluctant to do anything that might stop the Castiel currently rimming her.

Eyes closed, Crowley felt his own cock tighten, and he suddenly sat bolt upright. Now was not the time for him to finish—no matter how deliciously humiliating it would be for Meg to swallow him. He pulled her mouth off of him, shoving her back so that she was once again upright, with the imposter angel gripping her.

Her lips were glistening with her own saliva, some of it having slithered down the right-side corner of her mouth. For the first time since he had captured her, she would not meet his eyes. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, because, really, this was all too much.

"Dear little Meg… you're being a very good whore right now," he crooned at her, caressing her cheek.

She jerked her head away, but her lips pursed shut. She was still not meeting his gaze. So he allowed his own to roam her body, admiring her pale, pale flesh, perky breast, and erect nipples. Her own wetness was still visible on her thighs, and her musk was growing stronger.

"Hmm," Crowley murmured in thought. "Why don't we let Cas have some fun now?"

He lifted up a single finger, indicating to his made-up angel to turn Meg about to face him. He did so, meeting her lips with his own, holding her so close to his own body that it seemed as if he wanted to meld with her. Crowley arched a brow. His little actor was quite enjoying himself.

"She's quite good, Cas. Why don't you let her suck you?" Crowley suggested.

Meg took no coercing this time. She bent willingly, taking Castiel's large, erect member as far into her mouth as she could. She moaned onto his shaft, moving up and down while she rested her hands on his thighs, digging her nails in. Crowley smiled, resting his hands on her backside. She tried to shake him off, but his grip was firm.

"You've been doing an awful lot of work, Meg," Crowley said. "Why don't we do something to fix that?"

He could feel her gaze—though it was hidden behind her falling blonde locks—slide off in his direction. But she was careful to keep her mouth on the fake angel's cock as if her life depended on it. Fake Cas's hands were wound in the sheets, his head thrown back. Crowley chuckled, and he moved his hand down, rubbing and massaging as he went. He had both hands rubbing the inside of her thighs, right where they met with her center. He felt her muscles tighten, fully aware that while she might make herself believe that it was really Cas's cock she was sucking, it was most definitely the King of Hell touching her.

"I'd relax if I were you," he said, slipping a finger up a bit higher than her slit, resting on her taunt clit.

She jumped, and the resulting move was quite hilarious on the fake Cas's end. Apparently, he had enjoyed it, his eyes flying open and his hands tightening in the sheets. Crowley kept the speed of his finger slow, and moving in a circular fashion, and Meg couldn't help but moan. Her head continued to bob, and Crowley knew that she was struggling to keep her focus on this person she was allowing herself to believe was Castiel. But it was failing. Crowley could feel her wetness dripping onto his hand the more and more he rubbed at her clit.

Meg was panting now, actually panting. She was close, and that was when Crowley withdrew.

"Not yet, dear. Not yet. I have something special planned for that," he said.

He pulled his hand back, but not entirely. He paused just at her entrance and once again felt her tighten.

"Ssh, ssh," he said, working a finger, then two, inside of her. She whimpered, once again trying to buck him off.

Almost like an afterthought, he glanced up at his Castiel, taking in the almost zombie-like expression of pleasure on his face.

"You're not close, are you, mate?" he asked.

It took a moment for Castiel to realize that Crowley was speaking to him, but when he did, his head snapped forward. He opened his eyes, locking them with Crowley, and shook his head.

"Good," the King of Hell said, working a third, then a fourth finger inside of Meg while she moaned something that was closer to a squeal. "Don't finish yet. Like I told her, I have something special planned."

Finally, Crowley worked his whole fist inside of Meg, and for the first time in moments, she withdrew completely from Castiel, crying out. The King of Hell made sure to make a proper fist, making his hand as wide inside of her as possible. She was almost screaming, and while Crowley enjoyed this reaction, he couldn't help but roll his eyes.

"Oh please," he said. "You didn't make this big of fuss when I used the speculum on you."

"Fuck off," she screamed as Crowley began to pump his fist inside of her.

"Huh, I thought that's what we were doing? And Cas, since the lady appears to be done with your cock, perhaps you could make yourself useful in some other way?"

The imposter arched a brow.

"How?" he asked, a perfect imitation of the angel in every way.

Crowley was gaining speed, and he could feel Meg's walls clenching in protest despite their slickness.

"I don't know. Free-style for a moment, eh?" he said, shoving his hand inside of her up to his wrist.

The angel's brow still arched, he surveyed Meg's body, still positioned on all fours while the King of Hell fisted her as hard as he could muster. Meg's screams were somewhere in between pain and pleasure, and her nails had finally succeeded in ripping holes in the sheets.

"Stop!" she screamed. "Stop!"

The only time he had ever gotten his little pet to beg him to stop. Crowley grinned, feeling his hardened cock twitch, and pumped his fist harder. Meanwhile, his Castiel replica was still eyeing Meg's swaying breasts and distressed face. Finally, a decision apparently reached, he turned around and laid his head down on the bed. It took Crowley—and Meg, judging by the split second of no screaming—a moment to figure out what exactly he had in mind. But it was clear soon enough. He lifted Meg's weight up off her arms, laying the top half of her on his own, and slid back until his mouth was perfectly aligned with her clit. Then, his hands gripping her back and his head tilted so that he did not interrupt Crowley, he snaked a pink tongue out and began to lap at her.

The screams changed then. Her whole body shook, and Crowley watched as her arms wrapped about Castiel's thighs.

"Oh, Cas… Oh, Castiel," she moaned, her head returning to his crotch.

Crowley shoved his fist in deeply, bringing one more scream—like she was being mutilated. She was moving now, unconsciously thrusting onto his fist and rubbing her clit over Castiel's tongue. She nipped, gently, at Castiel's shaft, her screams descending into moans of pure pleasure. And, as much as Crowley knew he would deny it later, the scene was quite enticing. He began his thrusting once more, his free hand slipping down to his own cock, gripping it tightly. He jerked at it, moaning along with Meg as Castiel continued his ministrations on her little bundle.

"Yes," she whispered. "Yes."

She was getting close, and Crowley could feel his own pleasure building to a point. It took every ounce of his willpower, but he pulled his hands both from his own manhood and from within Meg. She screamed out a little as he broke free, and he grinned.

"Stop, Cas. I think it's time for my special little plan," Crowley said.

Castiel removed his mouth from Meg's clit, causing her whine in disappointment, and he slid out from underneath her.

"Let's turn her around once more. Make her face the headboard of the bed," Crowley ordered, standing on—admittedly—shaky legs as his made-up Castiel obeyed.

Meg was slumped against Castiel, panting and gasping. Crowley chuckled.

"Switch sides with me, Cas. Let me behind her," Crowley said.

Castiel nodded, moving so that he was face-to-face with her while Crowley crawled back onto the bed and wrapped his arms about her midsection.

"What…?" Meg asked weakly, but Crowley shushed her.

"You'll see," he said, removing one hand and snapping his fingers.

A mirror, running the length of the wall above the headboard, appeared. Crowley watched as Meg's reflection's eyes widened.

"What are you doing?" she said, suddenly sounding more alert.

"Finishing you. Well, finishing all of us, really," Crowley purred, pressing his lips against her neck.

He bit at her roughly, and she hissed. Castiel's hands shot out, grabbing at her breasts and matching Crowley's roughness. The King of Hell chuckled.

"Let's give her a proper fuck, shall we?" he asked.

Thankfully, on this, his fake Cas was a bit quicker up on the uptake. He pulled Meg's legs out from under her, wrapping them about his waist as he lost no time entering her. She gasped, her hands clawing into his shoulders. She tried to ride him, but Crowley held her still, moving into position. She realized, a moment too late, what the King of Hell had in mind for her.

"No, Crowley, please," she begged, and Crowley moaned, pressing his mouth to her ear.

"Say that again. I really love to hear you beg," he said, pressing the head of his dick to her ass.

She moaned through tightly shut lips, clearly trying to stop herself from playing right into his hands. But it was already too late for that, and Crowley thrust up once, hard, and entered her fully from behind. Both his and his fake angel's cocks inside of her, she screamed, her head lolling back and forth. Crowley's hands slid up, batting away one of Castiel's, as he gripped her breasts as tight as he could. She hissed in pain again, and he immediately lessened the grip and moved so that his fingers circled her nipples.

"Look, Meg. If you want to hurt as less as possible, look into the fucking mirror," Crowley growled.

Her eyes tightly shut, he squeezed her breasts again, punctuating the move with a hard thrust. She cried out, her eyes flying open. Crowley could see them locked on the mirror at first, but darting after a moment to the Castiel in front of her.

"That's fine," Crowley said. "I want you to do that. Watch both of us as we fuck you," he said.

And there was no more teasing after that. In unison, both men thrusted, and Meg cried out, her eyes darting back and forth from the mirror to Castiel. The demon and the fake angel went as hard as they could, both struggling to grip Meg's body tightly to them, but eventually just holding her directly in between the both of them. Crowley kept his hands and fingers on her breasts, teasing her nipples occasionally while Castiel stole quick and dirty little kisses everywhere he could reach.

"No," Meg moaned. "No…"

"Are you close, darling?" Crowley whispered in her ear. "Are you close to coming with me inside of you?"

"Castiel," she moaned defiantly. "Cas…"

"Oh yes, moan his name," Crowley said, both he and his made-up angel going as hard as they could inside of her. "Moan his name and know that it's not really him, darling. It never was. You're a neat little whore playing make-believe while the King of Hell and one of his minions fuck your brains out."

He felt his cock tighten, and he let his grip mimic the move on her body. But she was tightening too, and if the slacked look in the fake Castiel's eyes were any indication, all three were very close now.

"I hate you," Meg moaned, her eyes locked on the mirror.

"I know you do, pet. Oh, fuck," he gasped.

One final thrust from both him and Castiel, deep inside both her pussy and her ass, and all three screamed. Crowley could feel Meg's juices explode from her while all parts of her nethers quivered with her orgasm. She was panting and gasping, and whether she realized it or not, she had falling back to rest against him, and not her dearest angel.

"Leave," Crowley ordered, and his obedient Castiel—much better, he decided, than the real deal—withdrew from Meg with a gasp from both.

He was dressed in moments and gone from the room. Crowley could see in the mirror that Meg's eyes were closed, despite her head still resting on his shoulder. With a shove, he pushed her off of him, and she landed forward on the bed with a small "oomph." He glared down at her, gripping her and flipping her over. Finally, her eyes opened, returning his glare full-force. Crowley grinned, diving down and shoving his mouth against hers, his tongue invading with little resistance. He ran his hands the length of her body, and she was trembling again.

"Stop," she said, her voice weak and hoarse from all the screaming. Hell had yet to do its little reset on her.

"No," he growled, pulling his nails down her sides.

She arched into him. "Please."

"No," he repeated, feeling his cock growing hard once more.

"I hate you," she said again.

"I know," he responded, pulling himself up enough so that his head was at her still-wet entrance.

"I will kill you," she growled, followed by a quick gasp as he shoved himself inside of her.

He grinned, quite slyly. "Not if I kill you first, dearest."

He pounded inside of her, and she gasped and moaned like a good little whore should. She wouldn't look at him, but that only made him go harder, leaning down now to bite so hard at the nape of her neck that he drew back a mouth full of blood. She was trying to stay in control, trying not to let his thrusts feel good. Crowley repositioned, getting deeper inside of her, and she couldn't help but respond with a pleasant little moan.

"You're picturing him, aren't you?" he said, going as hard as he could.

She didn't respond. But she didn't have to. The King of Hell chuckled, diving down and kissing her once more, making sure that she tasted her own blood on his lips.

"Castiel would never hurt you like this, would he?" Crowley asked.

Meg's eyes opened, but her head was still turned to the side, determined not to face him.

"But you'd want him to. Because you like it. And maybe because, deep down, you know you're exactly what I call you. A whore. After all, who else could experience this much pleasure in Hell?"

His thrusts were becoming erratic despite his want, and he could feel her tightening against him. He put as much as he could into it, watching the fight go on inside of her. Her nose crinkling in the effort, her hands winding in the sheets. Finally, just when Crowley thought he could prolong his pleasure no more, she gave in, gasping and growling foul words as her back arched.

He cried his own little slew of words as he shoved himself in as deep as he could go, spilling his seed once again within her. When he pulled out from her this time, he left the bed completely, gathering his scattered clothing and redressing as if nothing at all had just happened. When he finally straightened his tie, he smiled down at her, her hands resting on her stomach and her gaze focusing blankly above her.

"Don't expect such fun every time I visit, my pretty little whore. And don't expect to ever see your precious angel again. I mean, not that that was him, you know it wasn't. I mean the _real_ Castiel. I don't think you'll be seeing him any time soon, if ever," he explained.

Now she looked to him, brow crinkled. She wanted to ask why, but didn't want to give him any more satisfaction. He'd allow her this freebie, since it was likely to hurt more than help.

"Cas, along with Dean, is in Purgatory, my pet. Been there this whole time. Can't imagine the things in there are all too friendly with angels."

He snapped his fingers, and Meg was properly restrained—and clothed—once more.

"Kisses, dear," he said, leaving.

##

Meg watched as the door closed after him, her lips pursed shut but still managing to quiver. Her eyes closed, she shook her head, trying her best to forget the shame her body still felt. It had been a long time since she had felt shame, even in Hell.

She had given in to Crowley's make-believe, and had even—though she would never admit it—enjoyed Crowley's violation of her. And it made her sick. The smarmy dick had won. But, with a deep breath, she glared into the canopy above her.

It was just a battle. Crowley had just won a battle. And Castiel—the real Castiel, _her_ Castiel—would be just fine, Purgatory or no. Because that damn angel was just too stubborn to die. And that brought a smile to her face, despite the screams echoing from beyond the bedroom door. Crowley had won this battle of wills… but the war was far from over.


End file.
